


Respite / Resolution

by Dee_Laundry



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Cheating, Gay Mensa, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-04
Updated: 2006-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:10:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson reflects.  Then House finds out the what, and why. Angst, fluff, and Gay Mensa ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://fallen-arazil.livejournal.com/profile)[**fallen_arazil**](http://fallen-arazil.livejournal.com/) for the speedy beta on the first chapter, and to the fabulous [](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/profile)[**daisylily**](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/) for the beta, the title, and the ringtone.

Wilson was in pretty heavy denial about why he cheated on his wives, but he knows exactly why he cheats on House.

It’s not like he didn’t go into this relationship with his eyes wide open. He had over ten years of friendship and several bouts of cohabitation with House under his belt; he was not naïve. But it’s the day-to-day that grinds. The never-ending, never-changing present, in which it’s always Wilson’s turn.

Cooking, cleaning, shopping, laundry, bills – it all falls to Wilson. He put up a fight at first, determined not to be the “wife.” But really there’s no hope; if Wilson doesn’t see to it, it doesn’t get done.

They make good money, of course, between them, and it’s not like he doesn’t have help. There’s a twice-weekly maid, a once-weekly chef and takeout, pickup/dropoff service for the laundry, and the groceries are delivered. Still, it’s Wilson that has to arrange it all, manage it all, and fill in the gaps in between. It’s Wilson that has to pick the underwear up off the floor, and wipe the crumbs off the counter, and move the shoes so House doesn’t trip.

House picks up beer, if he thinks of it, and sends Wilson out if he doesn’t.

Sometimes Wilson wants to scream, “I have a job too, you know! In fact, I spend more hours working at my job than you do at yours.” But what would he get from that? House is well aware of Wilson’s job, and often, House is the one generating those extra hours, with real consults on critical cases and fake consults that are usually quite fun but completely ruin the flow of his day.

For example, Wilson’s a fan of handjobs, loves them, but when he’s finally managed to get that fantastic radiation oncologist from Sloan-Kettering on the phone, the one PPTH has been chasing for months, the one who’d make a great deputy department head and take some of the administrative burden off Wilson – the fingers disconnecting the line are not welcome, no matter where they intend to go next.

It’s not like Wilson didn’t sign up for this, like he didn’t know. But there’s knowing, and there’s experiencing, and the experiencing just sometimes gets to be too much.

He’s taken to lurking on Internet forums for working mothers, just to hear the war stories of other people who are there, who are overwhelmed, who know what he’s going through. Those forums have also, incidentally, become his favorite hunting grounds for people with whom to cheat on House. He never talks to them there, only lurks, except for that one week that he was Penny from Pittsburgh with the rebellious preteen named Conner and the twins Ashlyn and Chloe, but that got way too weird, and he’s really, honestly never wanted to be the wife.

He did want to have kids, when he was younger, and he’s even once or twice thought about bringing the topic up with House, but then he thinks, _that’s three lives I’d have to run_ and it gets too exhausting to make it any further than the back of his mind.

So even though he’s got no kids, he lurks on the working mother forums to hear the stories and not feel so alone, and then he follows the smartest of the women over to other, more general interest forums and introduces himself there. He’s usually Neil on the Internet, a name he’s always admired, though he can’t really remember why. One time he was Greg, and that was particularly embarrassing when it slipped past his lips inadvertently during sex, but better to be a complete narcissist than a craven AC/DC cheater, he supposes.

Of the working mothers, Amy’s been his favorite so far. She was so damn bright, so literate and articulate, and enragingly stifled as a full-time homemaker and part-time wage slave. He met her in Boston one weekend, when she had a “gals’ weekend away” and he had an actual seminar on alternative theories in oncology research. It’s a good thing he’s a fast reader, because he missed every last one of the lectures, and had to read everything on the plane ride home in case House wanted to discuss anything that had been covered. So then, of course, House didn’t; he just bitched about screwing something up on TiVo and how the new laundry service wasn’t working out worth a damn. Not that House had any ideas about other laundries they could try. Wilson had begged off with a headache that night for the first time in his life.

There are good days of course, a whole hell of a lot of them. Nobody in the world makes Wilson feel the way House does, and he’s certain, most days, that he’s finally got his true _bashert_ , his soul mate.

It’s just that it takes so much to keep their lives running, and it’s Wilson on the treadmill, Wilson as the ringmaster, the lion tamer, the juggler with way too many balls in the air. G-d has infinite capacity but Wilson doesn’t, and he just gets so damn tired of doing it all and never being the one that’s taken care of.

It’s like he tells the family members of his patients: What you’re doing is demanding, and it’s easy to forget your own well being as you become so involved with meeting your loved one’s needs. You need time off to relieve stress and prevent burnout. By taking respite where you can find it, you’ll be able to shoulder your responsibilities with as much strength and love as possible.

That’s the theory he’s working under, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

House waited.

He sat in the living room of the house they’d bought together, on his old couch, with his feet on the coffee table Wilson had picked out, and waited.

Wilson had been gone a long time this sunny Sunday morning. Golfing. With Anderson, who was a schmuck, and Patel, who was decent enough but never shut up, and Terthington, who gave women beautiful knockers for a living. House had asked once if he ever got tired of breasts, after working with them, on them, in them every day.

“Hell, no!” Terthington had snapped back. “What red-blooded American man would? You’ll back me up, right, Wilson?” Wilson gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and for once, House was sorry he’d opened his mouth.

This whole line of thought – breasts and mouths and being _sorry_ – was pushing House further into a funk, so he stamped it down and focused on the French nephrology article in his hands. He had to distract himself so that he could put his personal thoughts on hold while he waited. Conversations with Wilson that started in the middle were never, ever successful.

The lock turned, the front door opened, and Wilson click-clicked two steps into the foyer in his golf shoes.

“Why didn’t you take those damn things off at the course?” House called over his shoulder.

Wilson sighed loudly, and from the fumbling sounds House could tell he was struggling to get the shoes off.

“I didn’t have my regular shoes with me,” Wilson replied, “because I forgot them, because I was running late, because somebody insisted I had to provide both a blowjob and Western omelets before I left this morning.” He grunted, and first one shoe and then the other hit the floor.

“You were going to be gone almost all day. I deserved some form of compensation.”

“Yeah.” Wilson was clearly not in agreement, although he had satisfied both of House’s desires this morning. He padded out of the foyer in his socks, crossed to the dining room table, and picked up yesterday’s mail, as House watched.

Wilson looked… neutral. Not upset, but not overjoyed either. That was a good frame of mind for the upcoming conversation. Of course, it really didn’t matter, because House couldn’t hold off any longer.

He kept his emotions in check, though; the opening gambit had to be casual, or he wouldn’t make it through this.

“So,” House began, pleased with how steady and strong his voice was. “There was a funny wrong number today.”

“Yeah?” Wilson was distracted, still looking through the mail.

“A woman named Jennifer, looking for a guy named Neil.” House had his eyes on Wilson. He saw: an increase of tension in the shoulders, slightly faster breathing, and when Wilson flicked his eyes toward him, a carefully impassive face.

House continued, “She wanted to let him know she was going to be in town this weekend, and that her husband doesn’t suspect a thing.”

Wilson dropped the mail on the table and disappeared into the kitchen. “Wow. That’s a rather incendiary message to leave on someone’s answering machine.”

“It wasn’t on the machine.” House raised his volume just enough to be heard in the kitchen; overall, his voice was holding. Good. “The call came through on your cell, which you’d forgotten. I picked up by mistake because our cells have the same ringtone. Jennifer blurted everything out before I could even say hello. She was very embarrassed when I told her it was a wrong number.”

“I would guess she would be.” This was muffled a bit, but House still heard.

“You know, this guy Neil’s a major player.” They were almost there.

Wilson came out from the kitchen, sipping a glass of water. Interesting how that seemingly simple activity camouflaged a lot of the physical signs of rising emotion.

“Because he’s luring a woman away from her husband?” Wilson replied.

“Because he’s lured no fewer than seven women away from their husbands.” House let his voice go where it would now; it chose deep and hissing. “At least that’s the count based on the messages he’s saved on your fucking cell phone.”

He clutched the offending cell phone tighter and pitched the DVD remote at Wilson’s head instead.

Wilson ducked, and his arm jerked. Water splashed across his sleeve, and an ice cube skittered across the floor. The remote cracked when it landed.

“You listened to my messages?” Was there anger in that tone? Betrayal? That fucking hypocrite.

“No. I listened to Neil’s messages. They went back two years. The one from Antonia was particularly filthy; I had to listen three times before I was sure I understood what she was saying.”

“They could have all been wrong numbers.” Wilson was breathing heavier. He could withhold the truth, he could scheme and plot – oh, that was for damn sure – but a lie off the cuff was still hard for him. “Maybe Neil’s number is one off from mine –”

“That’s really the tack you want to take in this argument? Implying I’m an idiot, that’ll help the situation? Although we both know now I am an idiot for ever having thought that you’d be different with me. That you’d keep it in your goddamn pants because I meant something to you that your wives didn’t.”

“You do!”

“Asshole!” The TV remote flew at Wilson and as he jumped out of its path, House pushed off the couch and fled down the hallway.

The padding steps behind him drove House’s fury higher, and he took it out on their bedroom door, slamming it into the wall as he passed through the doorway.

He was not going to cry; he was not going to give Wilson the satisfaction of breaking him. But to avoid that fate, it would help to have a distraction. Fuck. He should have gone to the kitchen. It would have been such a pleasure to dent Wilson’s goddamned copper pots.

“You mean so much more than anyone else ever has,” Wilson pleaded from the doorway. “You have to listen to me.”

“Ohh,” House replied, drawing the long O out, intrigued with the way it curled past his clenched teeth. “I don’t think you’re in any position whatsoever to tell me what I have to do.”

He paced back and forth, cell phone still clasped in his left hand, leaning heavily into his cane with his right as if to smash it through the carpet. This bedroom was way too big – he’d told Wilson that when they moved in – but just now he appreciated the space so that he could move and burn off the energy that threatened to consume him.

“Let me explain.”

“Explain? What, your dick slipped? Repeatedly? Over two years?” He wanted to grind his hand into his face but was denied that by the death grip he still had on the horrible, hateful cell phone.

“Two years,” he repeated. And damn it, he was not going to cry, no matter what was happening in his chest and his throat. He needed to focus on the anger instead of the – He wasn’t even going to name it. “Did you even wait a month into our relationship before you cheated on me?”

“It was three months, almost four. The dates on the first two messages are wrong.”

Stupid idiot. House’s anger flared and drowned out everything else as he closed his eyes. Both his hands clenched even tighter, around the cane handle and the cell phone. He kept himself from flinging one or both by sheer force of will.

“Do you want me to hit you? Do you want me to crack your skull open?”

“I just wanted you to know the truth.”

“Oh, priceless.” The anger ebbed, a tide rushing back out to sea, stripping the sand as it went. He opened his eyes, stared at the ridiculous green carpet, and sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly tired. “Now you care about the truth. And that brings up another point. Why didn’t I hear this from you before? You always confess; you can’t contain your –”

House stopped and glanced at Wilson briefly before returning his attention to the floor. This whole conversation, there hadn’t been any guilt on Wilson’s face. There was some now, presumably from the lack of confession, but there hadn’t been before.

Wilson was suddenly in front of him, on the ground, looking up, trying to catch his gaze. Wilson’s hands were on House’s knees, and looking at them, he was filled with revulsion. No. Wilson did not get to touch him now.

“Get back,” he snarled, overriding whatever Wilson had been about to say.

Wilson’s eyes widened; he was making the stupid guppy face without even opening his mouth.

“Get back!” House screamed in his face, and that got Wilson to move. He scrambled back about four feet until he bumped into the dresser and then he sat there, pulling his knees to his chest.

“House.” Wilson was pleading again. “I want you to understand.”

“You want a lot for a cheater and a whore.”

Wilson dropped his head but his voice was still strong. “Don’t you want to know why?”

“Why? I know why. Because you can’t keep it in your fucking pants! You think with your dick, that’s why!”

Wilson’s head was still down. “It’s not about my dick.”

Liar. House took a deep breath to steady himself and said, “There is one ‘why’ I want to know. Why did you keep the fucking messages? That was incredibly stupid; you had to know I’d find them some day.”

He hadn’t wanted to look at Wilson up until this point, but now he needed to see his eyes. It had all been terrible and shocking, but this question was the only one that was puzzling.

Wilson hesitated.

“Look at me!” barked House.

Reluctantly, Wilson brought his head up and returned House’s look, albeit not steadily. There was pain in his eyes, but House didn’t see guilt, and he wasn’t sure about regret. Damn him.

“Souvenirs,” Wilson confessed. “So I could remember them on a bad day.”

“Bad day, huh? Then I guess you’ll want to be getting those messages now.” House flung the cell phone to the carpet near Wilson’s feet; Wilson ignored it as it bounced away.

Wilson moved slowly, stretching out his legs and straightening his back. His head thumped softly against the dresser.

“Let me tell you why.”

A push, and House was off the bed, pacing again. “You’ll tell me what I say. Were there only seven women, or more than seven? Any men?”

“Just women. Nine. Jennifer would have been the tenth.”

“Give me their names,” House demanded. “All of them. Chronological order.”

“You don’t want to know their names. And – I don’t remember.”

House paused in his pacing, letting Wilson see his disgust at the pathetic nature of that lie.

“You just said you wanted to remember; you kept souvenirs.” He resumed his circuit around the room, suppressing his urge to kick Wilson as he passed.

“What about the two women who aren’t on the messages?” he continued.

Wilson’s hand was across his face; he would pinch the bridge of his nose any second. House turned away. “They didn’t want to call. They emailed me.”

Fuck. He hadn’t thought to check email. _Wilson, you son of a bitch_.

“Names, now.”

“Yvonne. Daisy. Antonia. Amy. Laura. Gina. Debbie.”

“Debbie from the hospital?”

“No. No one from the hospital. Never. They were from out of town.”

Like that made anything better. If House had been one to roll his eyes, he would have rolled his eyes then. He stabbed his cane harder into the carpet instead.

“That was seven. Two more.”

“You –” Wilson stopped, gave up. “Katherine and Terry.”

There was a sick satisfaction for House in making Wilson spit out the details. The certainty of fact soothed over the wilder inventions of House’s mind, and the enforced candor had to be knocking that most aggressive of passives out of his comfort zone.

Next detail, next twist of the knife. “How long were the affairs?”

“They weren’t affairs. Just breaks.”

House fixed Wilson with a glare. “How long?”

Wilson flushed. His gaze rose to the ceiling. “Usually just one time with each woman. A weekend was the longest.”

“The new theories conference in Boston. Cuddy said you didn’t get shit out of it; now I know why. That would have been –” He did some quick calculating in his head. “Laura.”

“Amy.”

“Why did she get a whole weekend?”

“You don’t want to know this.”

House snapped, “Don’t tell me what I want. How did Amy warrant a whole weekend?”

“You were –” Wilson stopped, rubbed the back of his neck, and started again. “Two weeks before the conference, you had three patients at once. You wanted consults and tests from me for all of them. One of my radiation therapists quit with no notice, and my best nurse wanted to go around the nursing contract for more money. My car died, and our mechanic refused to take it because you’d yelled at him about the bike. I tripped over a pile of journals you’d left in the living room and wrenched my back, and you wouldn’t give me a damn pain pill. It was not a good week.”

“Yes, a riveting tale.” House felt like he’d worn down the carpet; his leg was beginning to twinge. He sat down in Wilson’s reading chair and put his hands behind his head, stretching out his shoulders. “What does that have to do with Amy?”

“It has nothing to do with Amy. It has everything to do with me.” Wilson crept to the bed and climbed on it. He was trying to catch House’s gaze; House was reluctant to let him have it.

“Why it was a weekend with Amy is why I do it at all. Because I need a break. Because my life is not easy.”

“That’s your reason?” House scoffed at the inanity. “Your reason for fucking these women and fucking me over is that life is not easy?” Why was he even listening to this shit?

“House – Greg – I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life.” Wilson was leaning across the bed toward him; House refused to take the bait. “But the price you make me pay for that is so unbelievably high.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You and our life together takes all of my time and energy. You consume me, House, and most of the time I love it. But sometimes I’m running on fumes, I’ve got nothing left, and you never notice when I hit that point.” Wilson pulled back, shrank into himself a bit. “You’re such a master at noticing – why don’t you ever notice that?”

House’s eyes narrowed. “You’re blaming the cheating on me.”

“No. I’m just trying to explain what happens, why I need a break sometimes. I need to – feel like just me, instead of one half of you, and –” He stopped, swallowed, and continued, “And have someone take care of me.”

House carefully kept his voice neutral. “So it’s like a retreat. A spa weekend.”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“A spa weekend in which you stick your cock in other people’s orifices! This is such bullshit! I thought you rationalized with your wives, but this is just insane. And you don’t even feel guilty about it!” House was out of the chair, pacing again.

“It’s not insane!” Wilson swiveled on the bed, trying to keep facing toward House. “I’m trying to tell you how I feel, what life is like for me. Please try to understand, please. I haven’t felt guilty for these breaks because they let me keep going with you. They give me the energy to do everything I do for you, for us. It’s just…respite.”

“Respite.” House snorted. “So, am I a geriatric with Alzheimer’s or a disabled child?”

Wilson sighed and squeezed his neck. He asked desperately, “You don’t hear any of this? Nothing that I’m saying makes any sense to you at all?”

“You knew who I was when you went into this. I thought I knew who you were. Stupid of me to skip over the cheating whore part of your personality.”

“Stop calling me a whore!” Wilson replied indignantly.

“You prefer ‘working girl’?” House stopped next to the bed, stared down at Wilson, and had a sudden realization. “You know what? I need to talk to somebody other than you about this. Come on.”

“What?” Wilson was startled. House reached down and pulled him off the bed, then pushed him down the hall.

As he was fumbling against House, trying to gain purchase without tripping, Wilson asked, “What are you doing?”

After one final shove, they were in the foyer. House opened the front door and pointed outside with his cane. “I need to talk to my best friend. Get out there and ring the bell.”

He poked Wilson once, and Wilson stumbled out the door. House slammed the door behind him and made his way to the liquor cabinet. Scotch seemed like a good idea about now.

The doorbell rang. House put two highball glasses on a side table, but took the Scotch with him to the door.

“Wilson. Glad you could come over. Want a drink?” He held up the bottle for inspection.

“Isn’t it a little early?”

“Oh, but this is a special day.” He made his way back to the living room and sat on the couch, trusting Wilson to follow.

When Wilson was settled in an arm chair, he passed him a drink. “I found out James has been cheating on me.”

“It’s ‘James,’ is it?” Wilson regarded him over the top of his glass.

House knocked back his shot in one go. “I’m angry with him.”

“Of course you are. Cheating’s a bastard thing to do. I guess I should know.” Wilson shrugged and stared into the amber liquid in his glass. “Sorry it happened to you.”

“And get this – he says it’s because he needs a break from me. Apparently just being with me is so onerous it drains him.” House let some, not all, of the confusion and pain he felt show on his face.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean that,” Wilson replied, getting right to the heart of the matter. “He wouldn’t have stayed with you two years if he didn’t love being with you. But you do ride him pretty hard.”

Surprised, House glared at Wilson. “What does that mean?”

“When’s the last time you made him dinner?”

“He likes to cook.”

“Every day? Every meal? And doesn’t he pretty much run the house? Including making your personal appointments?”

House scowled. “I guess. I never thought about it.”

Wilson shrugged with one shoulder, almost apologetically. “Maybe that’s the problem?” He ignored the look House fixed him with. “I’m not saying he was in the right – clearly he’s not. He’s acted like a slime ball.”

“And a whore.”

Rolling his eyes slightly, Wilson replied, “You also call him names a lot; that can’t be great for his ego. I’m just saying.” He took a sip of Scotch. “What are you going to do?”

House contemplated his empty glass. “Don’t know.”

“Want me to beat him up for you?”

“Nah, I kinda like his face the way it is.” House shifted and put his glass down on the coffee table. “You better go; he’ll be back soon.”

Wilson smirked briefly. “Think he’ll be jealous if he catches me here?”

Looking straight into Wilson’s eyes, House replied, “He knows you’re the only person that means a damn thing to me.”

Wilson held his gaze steadily. “You know, that might help, too,” he said quietly, “if you could find a way to make a few more friends. So he doesn’t feel like he’s the only support you have.”

“Yeah, yeah, you made your point.” House got up and gestured toward the front door. “Come on, out.”

“What’s your rush?” Wilson replied, but he was getting up as well.

“I hear ‘sorry for cheating’ sex is spectacular.” He walked Wilson to the foyer.

“You don’t want to miss that. See you.” With a wave, Wilson headed out the door.

“Bye.”

House shut the door and sighed. It could take some time to wrap his head fully around this.

The door opened and Wilson walked into the foyer, stopping a few feet away. House found he could look at him now; he looked sad, and contrite.

“You abused my trust. The one thing I have the hardest time giving anyone.”

“I know. That’s what I’m the most sorry for.”

The words helped House let go a bit. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but a good deal of the initial pain was gone. House had hope for the first time that things might turn out all right.

“What’s your position on ‘sorry for cheating’ sex?” he asked.

Wilson seemed to be trying, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile. “My best friend said it’s supposed to be spectacular.”

Closing the distance between them, House reached for him. “It’d better be.”

***

The ‘sorry for cheating’ sex was, unfortunately, not spectacular. Wilson was trying too hard, and House was hardly trying at all, and they gave up in the middle and watched a movie on TV instead. It was a stupid R-rated comedy that had been edited for television and thus made no sense. Or maybe it had never made sense; Wilson wasn’t quite sure.

About a half-hour in, Wilson was completely bored, so he slid to his knees and blew House right there on the couch. Judging from House’s reaction, it was, if not spectacular, at the very least satisfying. House came during a particularly loud burst of canned laughter from the TV, which made Wilson chuckle, which made House twitch a few seconds longer than usual.

He ran his fingers through Wilson’s hair and then left his hand there, occasionally giving a few lazy strokes with his thumb. Wilson knelt there between House’s legs, with his head in House’s lap and House’s hand in his hair, and felt happy for the first time that day.

Until his knees started to ache and House started to shift restlessly. “Could you get me my pills?” House asked as he pushed Wilson away. Wilson delivered the pills and then went to the kitchen to figure out dinner.

 

The next day, Wilson ran home at lunch to pick up some notes he’d forgotten and was very surprised to find their cleaner there.

“Lady? It’s not Tuesday; why –”

She smiled as she interrupted him. “Dr. House called me this morning and changed the schedule. Instead of Tuesday/Friday, you now have Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and every other Saturday evening.”

“Are you sure?” He made to step into the kitchen, but she shooed him away from the wet floor.

“Dr. House – what was his phrase? oh, yes – made it worth my while. Since you’re here, do you want me to fix you a sandwich?”

Wilson was perplexed but managed to come to his senses enough to respond, “No, thanks, I’m fine. Goodbye.” He wandered out to his car, still a bit dazed at this swift turn of events, and then had to run back into the house for the once-again forgotten notes.

When he saw House later that afternoon, he mentioned running into Lady. House just shrugged and went back to his GameBoy.

The ‘thank you and still sorry’ sex that night was flat-out amazing.

Thursday evening Wilson found a note from their chef service on the fridge: “Freezer full. Beef and tilapia in the refrigerator.” He opened the freezer and was taken aback; there had to be at least two weeks’ worth of meals in there.

“What’s for dinner?” House asked as he came up behind Wilson and reached around him to open the fridge. “I’m starving.”

“Tilapia,” Wilson replied absently, shifting to the side and still thinking of their full freezer. “I should make some rice.”

“Nope,” House replied, and emerged from behind the refrigerator door with a bag in hand. “Side dishes already made, just boil in the bag. Rice and – what the hell is this vegetable?”

“It’s bok choy. What is going on?”

“Tired of your cooking,” House replied, and pulled down a pot. “Thought I’d double up on the food we get from Gaston.”

Unable to stop himself, Wilson replied, “His name’s Garrison. Are you sure about this?”

“Oh, don’t get insulted. Your pancakes are still the best. You can make me some tomorrow.” House smiled as he filled the pot with water and placed it on the stove.

The ‘confused by your kindness’ sex was interrupted by a page from Foreman. Wilson delivered the pancakes to House and his fellows the next morning.

By Sunday, a week of not being tortured over the cheating was straining Wilson’s nerves. Every non-sexual attempt to apologize again had been met with a shrug and a quick change of subject. If this was a self-torture plan by House, it was working exceptionally well.

“Hey,” House said, as Wilson flopped on the couch, “on Thursday, why don’t you work late? If you could get home about eight-thirty, that’d be good for me.”

Wilson was instantly suspicious. “Why Thursday? What’s going on?”

“Just do it, all right? Eight-thirty on Thursday, no sooner. Oh, and I forgot to tell you I have a dentist appointment Tuesday at two. Actually, you probably don’t need to know that, but there it is.”

“You don’t have an appointment scheduled. How –”

“Yes, I do. See, there’re these handy things called phones, and when you punch in the right numbers, people come on the line and you can do things like set appointments.” House finished off his beer and then left for the kitchen.

This was getting odder and odder. Maybe House had been secretly switched. Wilson decided to check their bedroom for alien pods.

The next few days were vintage House (a complete pain in the ass who managed to still be charming), and Wilson started to relax. Maybe they were going to come through this fine. He had fended off Jennifer and shut down his private email account. He deleted a new phone message from Amy without even listening to it. Shame. She had really been an interesting person to talk to, but he knew he had to do it. Cold turkey was the way to go.

He even found the constant surveillance from House comforting. Every message and every work email were subject to House’s scrutiny, but it felt like love instead of punishment.

God, Wilson was screwed up.

Thursday at five, House leaned halfway into Wilson’s office and hastily said, “Remember eight-thirty tonight. No sooner, and come to think of it, not much later either.”

Wilson’s heart sank. This would be the retribution. Who would House be with? A hooker? Cuddy? Stacy? Wilson’s eyes unfocused as he imagined the possibilities, but he managed to reply, “Eight-thirty, check. See you then.”

He didn’t get much work done over the next few hours and was on pins and needles as he pulled up in their driveway. He didn’t think that the SUV was Cuddy’s, and it looked a little pricey for a call girl. Although, what did he know?

He closed his eyes as he stood outside the front door, dreading what he’d see. He opened the door and his eyes and saw: four strangers, and House, sitting in his living room. House was ranting to one of the strangers, a sallow middle-aged man, who was ranting right back, continually interrupting House so that their words overlapped. Wilson wondered if they were actually able to hear each other.

Two of the others, a portly guy in his twenties and an extraordinarily skinny guy with long blond hair, were quietly conversing, but they kept sneaking glances at House and his compatriot and smiling.

The last man in the room was staring at the art on the far wall. He seemed lost in his own thoughts.

Wilson took the last few steps into the room. “House?” he tried, tentatively.

House finished his sentence, topping it off with a gesture Wilson was pretty sure was lewd in Italian, before turning towards him. “Wilson, you’re home!”

House was smiling, relaxed, and Wilson was finding this more unnerving than seeing House with a woman would have been.

“Come on in and meet the guys.”

Wilson walked up to House’s chair. He was once again astonished when House reached out and draped an arm casually but firmly around his waist.

“Everyone, this is Wilson. Wilson, this is Lawrence.” The sallow man nodded.

“Dinky.” The portly guy waved shyly.

“Alfred.” The blond man smiled.

“And that’s Harry over there. He’s too busy to say hi.” The staring man adjusted his gaze to the next item hanging on the wall.

“Don’t forget me.” A tall, smiling woman entered the room from the hallway.

House gestured toward her with his head. “She’s the token lesbian.”

“Token straight woman! Hi, I’m Rebecca,” she said, extending her hand toward Wilson. He smiled and shook her hand, trying to hide his confusion about who exactly these people in his living room were.

As if reading Wilson’s mind, House continued, “They’re the Mercer County chapter of Gay Mensa.”

Wilson twisted toward House, who was looking very smug. “There’s a Mensa just for gay people?”

Lawrence responded, “Technically, there’s a special interest group within Mensa overall but we’re kind of a splinter thing. Just a social group, really.”

“I popped ‘interesting conversation’ and ‘hot cocks’ into Google, and there they were, first in the search results.”

Dinky blushed, and Lawrence scowled at House. “Our website’s keywords do not include ‘hot cocks.’”

Dinky’s blush deepened, and House laughed. “Dinky’s face seems to be indicating otherwise.”

They all turned toward Dinky, who seemed like he wanted to sink through the floor. Wilson felt sorry for him and decided to change the subject. “So, you’re a group for gay people, but Rebecca’s straight?”

Rebecca had taken a seat on the couch next to Harry. “I was gay. Thought I was, anyway, when I joined this group seven years ago. Turned out I wasn't a gay man; I was really a straight woman. Transgender, finished my final surgery a year ago. At least until I'm old and gray and have to get a hip replaced or something.” She smiled, and it was one of the prettiest smiles Wilson had seen in a long time.

“You stayed with the group anyway?” House asked.

“Yeah. These guys are all opinionated jerk nerds,” – a group eye roll ensued – “but they were totally there for me throughout the whole process. Can’t leave them now, and they’re afraid to kick me out. I know where the bodies are buried.”

House laughed, a good, honest laugh that made Wilson a little jealous. He was used to being the only one who could make House laugh like that. He sank onto the arm of House’s chair and leaned into him a little, feeling possessive.

He could feel House’s smirk in the way his arm tightened around him.

Alfred moved himself directly into Harry’s line of sight. “Harry, we’re almost done for the evening. How are you doing?”

Harry gave him a quick glance and then looked around him. “Good. Only the books left to go.”

As Alfred side-stepped out of Harry’s way, Lawrence jumped.

“Oh, shit. I forgot about the books,” he sighed, turning to House and Wilson. “Do you have a spare sheet or two for the bookcases?”

“Excuse me?” responded Wilson, thrown. House prodded Wilson’s rear and gestured toward the linen closet. _I wasn’t sure House knew where it was_ , he thought as he went to get the sheets.

Lawrence explained, “Harry’s not comfortable until he’s memorized everything in a room. You and I look at a bookcase and think, ‘Bookcase with books.’ Harry looks at each book separately. He’s not going to stop until he reads every single title, which means we’ll be here all night, unless we can head him off at the pass.”

Wilson helped him throw the sheets over all the bookcases except the one Harry was currently studying. The room looked like they were about to start painting, but everyone had gone back to quiet conversation and paid it no mind.

Wilson had the sense that Lawrence was, at the least, the _de facto_ leader of the group, so he took the opportunity to find out more.

“I take it Harry has some issues?” he asked.

Lawrence shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone have issues? But yeah, Harry is autistic. He’s a good guy, and really interesting when he’s comfortable enough to open up.” He looked over at Harry, and Wilson could see the honest affection he had for his friend.

Lawrence looked back at Wilson and smiled. “But tonight, since Greg had asked about joining, I suggested we all come here to get a sense for his home environment.”

“You check out prospective members’ homes before you let them in your group?” It seemed a little odd, even for this group of people.

“Well, not always. It’s just, I had met Greg before, at a conference, and I wasn’t sure he really met our entrance criteria.” Lawrence shrugged again and shifted from foot to foot.

“You didn’t think he was a genius?”

Lawrence scoffed. “I said I’d met him, didn’t I? Takes maybe a minute and a half of listening to him to figure out he’s a genius. No. I didn’t think he was gay or bi. To tell you the truth, I never got that vibe off him at all.”

Lawrence and Wilson both looked over at House. He was teasing Rebecca about something, and she flung her hair back as she challenged him in response. Lawrence continued, “I don’t have a lot of social sensitivities. I’m pretty socially clumsy, actually, but I have an excellent gaydar. I’d never get laid otherwise.”

Wilson tore his gaze away from House and looked back at Lawrence. “And now what do you think?”

“I’ll put it this way. Dinky’s got no gaydar at all. If he got over his crippling shyness and started hitting on guys, he’d get beaten up all the time. And even he can see the way Greg lights up when you’re in the room. No mistaking that.”

Wilson flushed. He liked to think they weren’t so obvious about it, but… He caught House’s eye just then, and the slow upward curl of House’s lips in response hit Wilson right in the chest. Then the warmth slowly seeped southward, and oh, who was he kidding? He might as well have “Gay for House” tattooed on his forehead.

He looked back at Lawrence, who was smirking at him. Alfred had joined them, and he might have been smirking too – it was hard to tell.

“So why gay Mensa?” he asked, and his voice boomed loudly into an unexpected lull throughout the room.

Alfred and Lawrence both shifted uncomfortably. Wilson looked around at the other members of the group, and they seemed similarly discomfited (other than Harry, who was still reading book titles).

He was confused but pressed forward. “Doesn’t that tend to limit your potential membership?”

“We like it to be an exclusive group,” said Dinky suddenly, and then shrank back as Wilson turned to look at him. Wilson tried to be as gentle as possible with his expression but Dinky still seemed nervous.

House was suddenly next to him, with a grip around his upper arm. “Honey,” he said in an odd voice, “can you help me in the kitchen?”

“Um, OK,” said Wilson, still confused. He allowed himself to be dragged into the kitchen.

“Why do you have to be so rude?” House hissed at him when they were hidden from the group by the kitchen wall.

“I’m not rude,” Wilson replied, shocked to his core. He wasn’t the rude one; House was the rude one, so what was this all about?

“You were just then,” snorted House, as he reached in the refrigerator and pulled out a water. “Drop it about their membership.” He twisted off the bottle top and took a big gulp.

“What’s so wrong with that question?”

House fixed him with the ‘you are so stupid’ gaze he normally reserved for Chase. Wilson didn’t like it one bit.

“When does a party become too big for you? How many people are too much?” House shook off Wilson’s skeptical expression at the seeming non sequitur. “Come on, how many people at a party would make you uncomfortable?”

“I don’t know. Maybe fifty?”

“Yeah.” House swigged down more water. “For the people in our living room, the max is about six. They need to filter the world so it doesn’t get overwhelming. So they take the intersection of two small populations, and that’s just about perfect for them.”

He finished off the water and threw the empty bottle in the sink. “But you don’t have to be rude and remind them that the rest of the world doesn’t think that way.”

House pinched Wilson’s ass as he left the kitchen, just to show there were no hard feelings. He kicked Dinky out of his chair and then addressed the room at large. “Sorry about Wilson, there.”

“Eh,” Alfred replied. “He did out himself as a neurotypical, though.”

House made a mock expression of concern. “C’mon, guys, is this really the kind of group that has to give labels to everything?”

The room burst into uproarious laughter. When it had died down a bit, Lawrence punched House lightly on the arm. “That was a good one, Greg.”

Harry appeared to have finished memorizing the books. He looked up with a blank face and said, “The answer is yes.”

“That’s why it’s funny, Harry,” Alfred said tenderly. “It’s ironic.”

“Ironic is when the intended meaning is the opposite from the literal meaning. Weren’t the literal and intended meanings of Greg’s question the same?”

Rebecca took over explaining. “See, for a neurotypical, the answer would have been no. Greg was showing affinity for our group by indicating he knew the answer would be yes for us.” It was unclear whether Harry understood this or not.

“Do you kill every joke, Harry?” House asked.

“No.” Everyone stared at Harry. He continued, “Now that was irony.”

The group laughed again, and this time Harry was smiling as well.

Lawrence stood up. “I think it’s time to go. Greg, thanks for having us over. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Rebecca retrieved her purse from under the couch, and they all started moving toward the door. House’s hand was on the door when Lawrence continued, “Where’s Hot Doc? We should thank him too.”

“Hey,” said House, “he’s not even the hottest doctor I work with. You should see the Australian. And the chicks are knockouts, too. Rebecca, do you want me to set you up?”

She rolled her eyes gently. “Once again, I’m not a lesbian. Or bisexual. You and Hot Doc want to do a threesome, though, let me know.” She grabbed House by the shoulders and kissed him on the cheek as Wilson entered the foyer.

“Who’s Hot Doc?” he asked.

The matching smirks all around were a little disconcerting. Alfred shook Wilson’s hand as they were leaving. “Dr. Wilson, thanks for letting us invade your home. Have a nice night.”

House waved them all out with a smile on his face, then turned to Wilson as the door closed.

“So?” Wilson asked.

“Yeah, they’re all right. They have interesting things to talk about, at least. They meet once a week over at Harry’s. Apparently, he actually converses when he’s in his own place.” House had walked back to the living room, grabbed the remote, and sat right in the middle of the couch. The TV flicked on to a Baywatch rerun. “Sweet!”

“Yeah, all right,” Wilson sighed as he sat down next to him.

House put his arm behind Wilson and started playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “So on Thursday nights don’t expect me to be around. You’ll have to fend for yourself.”

Wilson sighed and leaned back slightly into the touch. “House –”

“Wilson, this is what I know how to do. This is how I can be less omnipresent. And don’t say a word about ‘less omnipresent’ not being semantically correct.”

“I wouldn’t. But you do realize that talking to you is one of the more energizing parts of our relationship for me?”

“That and the sex,” House replied.

“Yes, and the sex. I don’t really need less of either of those.”

House’s fingers tightened briefly. “You do need a little bit less of the sex. In fact, you need to eliminate entirely the sex that’s with someone other than me.”

“I have.” Wilson turned to face him. “House, you’re –”

Surprisingly, House actually turned the TV off and turned to face Wilson as well.

“Look. I don’t care about picking up around the house, and I’m just not going to do it on my own. I’ll forget about setting up appointments and things, and you’ll have to remind me. I’m not going to remember our anniversary, and I’m never going to buy you chocolates on Valentine’s Day. This – getting out of your hair, not making you be everything to me – is what I can do to show you I’m listening, to show you that how you feel is important to me. If it’s not enough, you need to break my heart and leave now. Because if you ever cheat on me again, I will destroy both of us.”

The relief that flowed through Wilson drained him. All he could do was shake his head. “Oh, House. You’re twisted, you know that.”

House raised an eyebrow. “You slept around because your partner wouldn’t do the dishes. You’re pretty twisted yourself.”

Wilson knew his face must look goofy, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. “I love you so much.”

House slid his hand to Wilson’s neck and squeezed gently. “You’re totally a girl. I can have Rebecca start giving you some pointers.”

“Just kiss me, please.”

House’s lips on his felt as new and promising as the first time they’d kissed.

“Girl,” House whispered, before pressing in again. “My girl.”

Smiling, Wilson pulled back. “Your man.”

House nodded. “My man.” His hand tightened again and his gaze intensified. “Mine and only mine.”

“Yes.” They kissed again, and the warmth that grew between them was at once familiar and novel, the promise of renewal.

When Wilson pulled him tighter, House murmured, “I recorded a new outgoing message for your cell phone.”

“I do have to take work calls on that phone; you realize that.”

“Mm, hmm.”

_You have reached the phone of Dr. James Wilson, oncologist at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. You’re welcome to leave a message, but note that all calls may be monitored for fidelity assurance purposes. If you’re calling for Neil, he died. It was a gruesome and horrible death from an STD – they’re not even sure which one. You might want to get yourself checked out. Have a nice day!_


End file.
